


okay

by sauer (Showert_ime)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Emetophobia, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Possible Body Dysmorphia, Possible Cognitive Rigidity, Possible Mysophobia, Possible OCD, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, but happy endings, imagined self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 04:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Showert_ime/pseuds/sauer
Summary: Three times when Baekhyun, Jongin and Kyungsoo need someone to bring them back to the present.





	okay

**Author's Note:**

> Emetophobia is the fear of vomiting, and mysophobia is the fear of germs.
> 
> You might've noticed that a lot of the tags are "possible x", and that's because although I've experienced/I'm experiencing all of what you're going to read about, I'm not comfortable with labelling/self-diagnosing.
> 
> In short, mental health can be complicated and nuanced, so I thought some people might relate to the issues better with such tags. Please don't hesitate to reach out to me if something is problematic! 
> 
> I've been feeling lonely, and these characters are a way for me to express... stuff. 
> 
> PS: These are three drabbles, and in the first one, Jongin isn't in the picture. I love this AU, might write more about it. I mean, this OT3... is going to be the end of meeee.

The door closes with a satisfying click behind him, and in a matter of seconds, he has gotten rid of his shoes, has powered his laptop on and is playing music on Spotify.

Kyungsoo is not going to be back until late, so he told Baekhyun to order food because they didn’t have anything left in the fridge to cook from.

Baekhyun doesn’t mind. Greasy foods give him life. Sugary foods and drinks, too. (Not that he can drink fizzy drinks anymore because his gums are too sensitive, but hey, he can still enjoy—and crave—for the rest.) It’s not like it happens every week, so his stomach will definitely be able to handle whatever he fancies tonight.

An idea pops in his head, and he types in the coordinates for a brew pub he hasn’t been to in a while. Not that he is into vegan and vegetarian dishes all that much, but they have this divine, thin-crust vegan pizza with sriracha sauce on it and, well, he really wants to get that now.

But as the menu unfolds on the screen, he can’t seem to find what he wants.

It’s been updated recently, he reads, and suddenly, the idea of food on his tongue reminds him of chalk.

He’s not even sure why, but following his realization that the vegan pizza he’s been craving for months is not available anymore, his eyes begin to burn. His fingers cling to the holed sleeves of his cotton shirt, rip the fabric some more as he tenses up. His heartbeat quickens, goosebumps cover his skin, and his face also scrunches up in what must be an ugly ass grimace, yet nothing of this brings him any relief.

So he forces his legs up on the chair, curls in on himself, even as his hands card through his hair nervously, and he pulls, he pulls hard and harder, until his scalp stings all over—until strands are stuck in between his fingers, and until droplets of saltwater are dribbling down his eyelashes and the bridge of his nose.

The first few sobs, he holds them in, represses them as much as it is possible to do so, but still they manage to break out of his chest, his throat, his mouth, loud and raw and embarrassing.

Give him thirty minutes, and he will experience intense shame at the idea of his very own reaction.

But for now, it’s all that matters. His chest hurts, blood pounds violently in his head, and he bawls, like a kid, for twenty minutes straight before everything finally begins to slow down and, maybe, weigh him less.

Tension is still buzzing under his temples, vivid, and his eyelids are swollen and sticky. The light above him is too bright, the musical beats coming from his computer, too sharp. There’s snot running down his chin, and he almost wipes it all with the tattered sleeve of his shirt before thinking about what Kyungsoo would say if he were to witness him be disgusting like that.

Not that Kyungsoo ever hesitates to dry Baekhyun’s face with his own clothes—it’s just that he doesn’t want Baekhyun to dirty himself when tissue boxes are scattered across the apartment anyway.

So he kicks at the leg of the desk, truly as a kid who didn’t get the toys he’d asked for Christmas would, slumps down into his chair only to finally reach out for the tissue box beside his laptop to blow his nose.

It’s almost painful; the skin around his nostrils is dry, made dryer by his crying fit, and his entire face must still be flaring up because the tissue is grating. 

It feels as if he’s just emptied a part of himself, poured his feelings out in his tears and cries, a glass filled so much it brimmed over.

Now, his limbs have been filled with cotton balls to a point he can’t even bother to move. The tissues he used are lying in his laps, and he doesn’t care. There’s still a weird knot in his chest, and although he’s not overflowing with tension anymore, he’s so, so tired, and so very deceived, both in the restaurant he wanted to order from and himself.

Because he’s so fucking dumb, and always ends up throwing fits like a three-year-old when things don’t go as planned. Because he needs to have his way, no matter what, even though it makes him feel like a pure idiot.

 

Hours later, Baekhyun still hasn’t really moved from his spot in front of the computer. His body is made of rock, of ice, of something incredibly hard that makes it impossible to move, he doesn’t know, but even as his ears pick up on the sound of keys scratching at the keyhole followed by the wince of the hinges of the door, he can’t push himself to react.

The screen of his laptop is black, a reflection of his pathetic, puffy features, and he is focusing on it so intently that when Kyungsoo’s shadow comes into view behind him, he is startled.

Kyungsoo’s warm palms fly to his shoulders, press down on them as if to make sure he does not fall from his seat. “Hey, babe. I’m sorry—what are you doing?”

Baekhyun blinks, lips parted as he considers what excuse to come up with. Kyungsoo will probably be disappointed in him, if he were to learn of Baekhyun’s reaction.

But he would feel quite horrible, lying to his boyfriend. Maybe it is better to sound like a nutcase than to be someone who tells his loved one falsehood.

It’s not like Kyungsoo is not aware of his dumb acts, anyway. “The place I wanted to order from—they don’t have the thing I wanted anymore. So I … forgot to eat?” He didn’t. Not exactly. But he kind of did, at the same time. He has been feeling so, so empty, so weary that he somehow forgot to continue to exist.

Behind him, Kyungsoo hums, but doesn’t answer right away. Then, “Would you like to order something with me, then?” A pause. “I had dinner at the office, but honestly, I’m still starving.” His voice is smooth, but most importantly, it is soft, its lilts calm and affectionate, and Baekhyun puffs out a breath he did not know he was holding in at the lack of—of anything bad, of anything annoyed in Kyungsoo’s tone.

His palms are still on his shoulders, their heat seeping through Baekhyun’s shirt, and he grabs one, just to hold it and press down on the pads of Kyungsoo’s digits. “Hm. Yeah. Okay. I’d—like that.”

Kyungsoo leans down, then, just to hug him properly and leave a wet kiss on his temple. “Do you want to choose?” It’s an innocent question, really, one that comes from a boyfriend who just wants to accommodate his baby, but it causes Baekhyun’s heartbeat to speed up again, his chest, to constrict. The weird agitation from earlier tries to creep back into the edges of his vision, of his mind, and Baekhyun shakes his head, dispersing the illogical thoughts.

“No, no, honestly, I’ll just eat whatever you want.” There. Simple.

Kyungsoo nods, and even as he calls the nearest Thai restaurant, his hand stays in Baekhyun’s.

 

***

 

Jongin locks the bathroom door behind him, a wall between him and the rest of the world.

Although voices, bursts of laughter and the clanking of silverware can still be heard, everything has been brought down a notch, muted by wood. He revels in it, one eye twitching uncontrollably as he focuses on his breathing. Soon enough, some tension ebbs out of his limbs, and he relaxes. A bit.

There is a mirror to his right, and it covers the entire wall, seemingly pristine at a first glance.

Such a weird thing to have, a gigantic mirror as this one. It leaves too much to be seen, too much to be reflected back, and he almost wants to crouch down so he doesn’t have to bear his own scrutiny. But he doesn’t, because it doesn’t make much sense, because it would be a tad exaggerated to flee his very own reflection, and even if no one is in here with him at the moment, he would still embarrass himself.

He pads over to the sink, stretches his hands out in front of him before twisting the handles of the sink to have clear water running.

At first, it is icy cold, and it burns into the cracked lines of his knuckles in something quite like relief, but also quite like tingling pain.

He reaches out for the soap, pumps it once, twice, making sure he has enough before beginning to rub his hands together. The back of his hands, his wrists, his palms, his nails—he scrubs everything clean once. The water is turning hotter, but still he reaches for soap again, pumps it once, twice, and he has enough soap again, so he washes his hands anew.

There are small beads in the soap, probably as a way to exfoliate the skin, but as the water becomes scalding and steamy, and the little marbles dig into the cuts on his knuckles, he realizes it all hurts.

But he can’t stop now, not until everything is definitely clean.

So he doesn’t, he endures it all even as a red rash spreads across his hands. Then, he makes sure to pick a new hand towel from the drawer under the sink, not the one that is already lying on the counter, because he does not believe he would feel good drying his hands with something that is probably dirty.

His eyes wander around, from the clean towel in his hands to the mirror, and suddenly, his own face catches his attention, holds it.

He appears exhausted.

His skin, albeit golden-tinged, is too pale, making him look gaunt with his sunken eyeballs and sunken cheekbones. His lips are chapped because he has been biting them too much, perhaps, gnawing on them every time he searches for things to answer when engaged in small talk.

The bump on his nose, the one that has been bothering him ever since he was a kid, too sharp, too prominent, the one where the skin stretches too tight and too thin over, is so, so obvious under the white neon lights of the bathroom.

He doesn’t mean to look that ugly. That terrible, like he has not been taking care of himself.  
He doesn’t know how it is possible that he is not alone. He doesn’t know how it is possible that both Baekhyun and Kyungsoo say they love him.

What if it is not true? What if all of this is but a dream, a virtual reality, and he is dead already?

Jongin shakes his head, wills the irrational away.

Still, the bump on his nose bothers him so, so much. He wishes he could just get rid of it—he fears it will break out of his skin, someday, stretching everything too much, pushing because it wants to come out, to mess what little symmetry his features have.

It won’t happen. It should not happen.

Yet he feels the urge to pump soap in his hands and rub at his face, scrape the bump off with the little beads of the soap because he can’t take a knife to cut it out, nor can he use sandpaper to destroy the skin and the cartilage lying beneath it.

“Jongin?”

His heart misses a beat. A voice, twangy, warm, but worried. “Yeah?” he croaks out.

“You okay?”

He inhales, exhales, deeply so. Shuts his eyes for a few long seconds, until his eyelids stop trembling and his teeth stop grinding.

Somehow, he feels slightly better. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

And he unlocks the door, does not make a move as if to go out, but Baekhyun doesn’t mind. Rather, he seems to get it and steps inside, as beautiful as ever, and swings an arm around Jongin’s shoulder to cuddle him. “We were waiting for you for the cake. Kyungsoo has most definitely died at least twice in the one minute I just took to check up on you, so I think we should go.” Jongin hums amusedly under his breath, and Baekhyun grins cheekily. “Think you’re okay to come out?”

Jongin agrees, because he wants to give his brain a break, yeah, but also because he wants to lessen Kyungsoo’s internal despair at having to entertain more than one person at the time. They’re not even at their own place, but Kyungsoo baked the cake for Minseok’s birthday, and to his displeasure, that was definitely enough for everyone to take interest in him.

Jongin smiles. He loves his boyfriends.

 

***

 

There’s something alienating about obsession, phobia—about mental illnesses in general.

It makes one lonely, because it is easy to fall prey to the feeling that no one else understands, or wants to understand.

It eats away at one’s free time, too, and definitely not in any good way.

Kyungsoo knows all of this, is aware of the subconscious mechanisms and habits behind his thoughts, yet he finds that he makes the same mistakes over and over again. Mistakes such as giving into repetitive, negative thoughts, mistakes such as avoiding (almost) everything that brings him out of his comfort zone.

The restaurant is loud. Between the clanking of the utensils and the high, uninhibited laughs, his ears are vibrating.

He keeps having to wipe the palms of his hands on his dress pants as they are too clammy, and he doesn’t want to leave stains on his fork, his knife or his glass of wine, which is still full.

Across from him, Junmyeon is rambling about the latest document he has been in charge of, or rather, the new intern who doesn’t know how to use the company’s templates on Word. Kyungsoo nods, hums, sighs to show his interest in the conversation—or rather monologue, really—but it is hard to when every ounce of attention his brain has to give is mostly dedicated to being scared.

There is a salmon tartare on his plate. It smells of fresh cilantro and the sea in a way that would make most people salivate. Junmyeon insisted he tries it, so Kyungsoo gave in and ordered it, but now he … isn’t really sure about it.

A bad idea—that’s what it is. The food on this plate is directly related to his food anxieties. But the ten or so colleagues around the table are not going to mind their business if they notice him picking hesitantly at his meal. For some reason, as much as Kyungsoo loves to blend into the background, people always observe him, are always ready to point out everything he does.

He could say he doesn’t like the taste of his tartare, but that would make him seem cheap. He could say he has an upset stomach, but then Junmyeon will chastise him for tagging along in the first place, and he doesn’t want to feel as though he made efforts to hang out with co-workers only to be told he should not have bothered to come. He could say—what? That he is scared of the raw fish, the bean sprouts, everything on his plate because a sick cook might have coughed above it, the assistant cook might have forgotten to wash his hands, and the food might be contaminated to begin with?

He is ridiculous.

“Are you listening?” Junmyeon’s gaze is expectant and steady, but as light reflects in the orbs that are his eyes, there appears to be a glint of worry, too. Kyungsoo’s mouth hangs open for a bit, and Junmyeon takes the occasion to add, “Is it the food thing again?”  
His forehead shines unnaturally under the lighting of the lamps, a hint that he probably put BB cream on because he cares about his appearance—Kyungsoo himself did not bother to style his hair or anything like that.

It takes up too much time. He prefers not to think of things that take too much time.

And Kyungsoo has never really told him, but they have this kind of tacit understanding that there’s ’something’ going on with food and public places, that there’s something going on with Kyungsoo washing his hands and avoiding sick co-workers like the plague.

He simply shrugs. “It’s okay.” And Junmyeon probably has an inkling that it’s not quite okay, but he nods, tells Kyungsoo he can order something else anyway, that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t taste the tartare, then carries on with his complaining about the new intern.

Kyungsoo is thankful. Each time someone lingers on the subject of his—whatever, anxieties, he feels as though it’s feeding the monster rather than helping him fight it.

He only dares to sip at his glass of water, eats a few bits of the crackers that are not touching the tartare, but Junmyeon eats a good portion of what’s on his plate anyway, and just for that, Kyungsoo is happy he doesn’t have to answer to a waiter or a waitress’s “Was is not to your taste, sir?”

It was. It would have been, surely. It smelled amazing.

But just looking at it, he could feel himself become contaminated, could feel his fingers become stickier and grayer, could feel his tongue swell and tingle.

He could not handle it.

 

The lock clicks behind him with a hint of finality. He lets his shoulders sag and shuffles to the kitchen, where he prepares some instant ramen because his stomach is eating itself, and it is anything but pleasant.

Sometimes, he wished it was enough to beat his fears.

A figure appears from the corridor. Jongin, his gait awkward with sleep, eyes puffy, is blinking at him and his pot of ramen. “Couldn’t eat?” There is no mockery behind these words, just wonder, and maybe a bit of worry, as always.

He hums in agreement. “Junmyeon wanted me to try some food, but…” But it was food that scared the hell out of him.

It’s so irrational. He knows he won’t be sick—in most cases, anyway. He knows being sick is not the end of the world, too. Yet his brain won’t let him be.

Jongin only nods, though, and with his naked feet, walks around the kitchen island to stand behind Kyungsoo and hug him close. His arms, so long and so warm, just snake around his waist, and his nose presses against his jawline.

He sighs, but this time in content.

“I’m just glad to see you trying to eat anyway,” Jongin says. Kyungsoo rolls his eyes, then. “I’m not trying to starve myself, you know that.”

Jongin shrugs, but Kyungsoo can feel his lips stretch into a grin. “Yeah, I do. Still, Baekhyun was hell tonight, you know? Kept saying you probably wouldn’t eat enough, and that you’d probably freak out alone, and even tried to convince me we should go to the same restaurant to come get you.”

Kyungsoo laughs, then, to cover up his embarrassment, his guilt, and the love he feels so intensely knowing Baekhyun and Jongin were thinking of him.

“It’s okay. One day, I’ll be fine.”

He believes it.


End file.
